


Head of Choir

by thegreatgayjatsby



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Church Sex, Established Relationship, In which Cronus debauches a preacher, In which Kankri is a holy man and commits scandals in the church, Kankri giving head, Lungs are good for speaking singing bjs, M/M, Pastor/Preacher/Priest!Kankri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatgayjatsby/pseuds/thegreatgayjatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cronus' boyfriend, a churchman named Kankri, is an angel whose lungs are prefect for preaching, singing, and giving head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Head of Choir

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to a certain SOMEONE who made me think of this au pff

Your name is Cronus Ampora, and you have never been a holy man. The only reason you go to church-ever- is to hear your boyfriend sing. He’s a precious squirt of a thing, barely able to comfortably tuck his head under your chin when you’re both standing. He’s cute as a button, all done up in his Sunday’s best, suit freshly pressed. 

He catches your eyes lingering from the pew and picks imaginary lint off of his already immaculate cuffs. For a man of the cloth, he is rather particular about his looks. His near raven hair is coiffed, like usual, no amount of product able to tame it. He always tries to look his best, though, when he’s out giving his sermons.

You take a moment to praise your self restraint, after all, you do wait through an almost hour and a half watching him speak with that high, lovely voice of his. Your eyes always linger on those plump lips of his as he talks on and on about Christ and such. You imagine tearing his suit from his compliant little body and sinking your teeth into his pale skin, marking him.

As much as he belongs to God, he will always belong to you.

You continue eyeing your little lamb, not bothering to keep your hungry gaze from his ass as he turns to head up to the rest of the choir. He must have bottomless lungs, you muse, with how long he can talk with such vigor, how high he can sing a single note, how good he is at holding his breath so he can use his mouth for other things.

He smooths the ruffles in his shirt out, straightening himself, and he opens the leaflet of hymnals, gesturing one-handedly for his congregation to do the same. Most of them have already, knowing the drill, like sheep. You bite back a scoff and flip your pamphlet open, only looking up when he begins to sing.

Something called Pérotin, and damn, when you close your eyes, you can hear angels. You let his music into you; as much as you appreciate good old classic rock and your acoustic guitar, it is so beautiful. You keep urging him to let you start a more new age youth group with your music, but he refuses. 

Probably a good thing, you don’t give a damn about church. You just want to watch him see you doing something useful for once. Either way, he stands with his hands folded over his diaphragm, eyes closed, the most angelic of sounds pouring from his lips. It’s almost as good as him saying your name, you think.

A faint smirk on your face, you watch as the song ends and he dismisses his followers. Herd animals they are, they all stand and wind like a river of sanctified losers through the church and spill out into the parking lot. You linger until the choir’s gone, the last of everyone abandoning the church until you and he are alone.

He takes his sweet time straightening up, stacking papers and such and folding up pamphlets. You don’t really mind, as long as he keeps giving you that view of his ass. Eventually, however, he glances down at you, all pursed lips and stern glare. 

You heave yourself from the pew and trot up to him, taking the stairs two at a time to climb to him. He bites into his lower lip, and you reach out, swiping your thumb over his mouth so he has to release it. “That’s my job.” You remind him playfully, only to watch him frantically hush you and push you towards the confessionals. 

You let him lead you, and you crack your knuckles one by one as he guides you past the little curtained stalls and into the back office. He closes the door, locks it, turns to you, arms crossed over his chest. His suit looks too pretty on him, and you reach for him, tugging him to your chest. 

He settles against you as you kiss him into complacency, and eventually, his hands find your shoulders, bracing himself. He’s never sure whether or not he wants to pull you closer or push you away, but on this occasion, you find him working his fingers into your shirt to bring you into him.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, and glad for his reaction, you part them, inviting him inside. The two of you kiss like that for a good long moment or so, and he even lets you get a handful or two of his ass before his pride returns and he pulls away.

You stroke his hair back over the shell of your ear, gaze gentle as you level him, your hands framing his slender hips. He shudders a little as you lean back against his desk, and as he sinks to his knees before you, you tilt your head back, eyes locked to the ceiling, and thank God for landing you such an angel.


End file.
